


Mr. Mundy's Last Stand

by randomclustermissile



Category: Team Fortress 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomclustermissile/pseuds/randomclustermissile
Summary: Almost 50 years have past since we heard from the merc's, and life ain't gotten any easier.





	Mr. Mundy's Last Stand

Graphic depictions of violence, Major Character Death, 1832 words

Read on ao3! 

“Stupid, bloody Americans,” I mutter as I turn off the telly. “They always think everything's about them. That they're untouchable. Now look what they've done.” I sigh and lean further back into my armchair. My left hip slides awkwardly downward, sending into excruciating spasms of pain. “GAH!” I scream as I sit back up again. I mumble some curse words under my breath incoherently, then I hear the ring. My body freezes immediately. I gulp. It rings again. A phone that hadn't rung in 30 years. I slowly, as if frightened by it, pick up the phone.

“Hello miss,” I say quietly.

“Mundy. It's Pauling.” A woman, whose voice had changed vastly since we last spoke, squeaks hurriedly down the line. She's desperate, I can already tell. Her voice is husky, as if she hadn't aged well. I can't say I blame her. Neither have I. “I need you to do something for me.”

“You know me, miss. Name it, and it's done.” I reply, eager but unsure.

“Look at your TV.”

I turn slowly at the TV my great-nephew bought me for Christmas last year. “Yeah, what about 'em?” Already guessing what she was about to say.

“I need you to take them out for me.”

I almost drop my coffee on my shirt. “What, those two?”

“Yes.” Her tone drops to a low, nervous squeak, the rain on her side drowning out her small voice. It's as if she's being watched.

“Okay.” I gulp. “How much?”

“Mundy, I'm lying in a hospital bed in the Badlands. They won't even let my wife visit me. This one's personal.”

I stamp my foot on the ground in anger. I'm not angry at her, however. I've never had anyone in my life, that's just how it was, but I'll be damned if the woman who saved my life more times than I can count rots in a bed in the middle of the American desert with no-one but her lonesome for company. I steal a glance at the photos I have stocked on the mantlepiece. One of me parents, one of me as a wee fella learning to shoot, and my proudest one: It's me, right near the back, rifle in hand, standing next to that french pomme, with all of my colleagues. Pauling is right in the centre. She's smiling, not something she usually has time for. It was at our Christmas doo, the last one before we drifted apart, forever.

“Ma'am,” I ask slowly, “Who else is still alive?”

Mrs. Pauling gulps. “Not many.” She chokes back a sob. “As far as I'm aware, you and the medic are the only ones still accounted for.”

I almost drop my phone in shock. “How? What about the little runt?”

“Scout was actually the first to die. Turns out after the spy saved his life after medic brought you back, he had an expiration date on himself.” She swallowed. “On December 4th, 1982, Jeremy took a bullet for the spy. Dove right in front of it. Spy never forgave himself.”

I couldn't believe. A boy so selfish in his youth, so arrogant, took a bullet for the man he hated the most? “And who else?”

“The soldier, Jane, flew a plane full of explosives into the Atlantic Ocean. It was headed straight for Russia. Zhanna was devastated. We have no idea where Pyro went. Some say they've gotten therapy and is trying to reform themselves into modern society. We don't know their identity or whereabouts.”

“Let me guess,” I chuckle. “That ol' cyclops died of liver failure.”

“Actually, Tavish stopped drinking about ten years before he died. Took a bullet to the eye. Ironic, huh?”

I try to suppress a laugh, and it hurts. “And the big guy?”

“Misha got old, and died in his sleep about 5 years ago while staying with his sisters. The funeral was huge. They even invited me. Medic, his husband, is looking after Zhanna now, they're both still grieving. Dale vanished after Helen died. Blames himself for it I guess.”

I didn't ask about the spy. I didn't have to. After we disbanded, we surprisingly became good friends. He died of lung cancer about 8 years ago. I haven't smoked since.

“All I can guarantee is getting you in and out of the country safely.” She continued. “You'll be posing as the escort's crazy Australian brother. Once you arrive at the Badlands, I'll have an escort drive you to the RED base, where you can gather your rifles.”

I nod as she speaks, jotting it all down in my head. My stubble itches in anticipation.

“I suggest you use the Machina.”

“That's crazy!” I leap up from my chair, wincing as my hip aches. “I'll be spotted before the bullet hits the first guy's brain!”

“I know. It's suicide.” Her voice is choked up, as if she's crying. “But you're all I have. And I want those sons of bitches to fall with one bullet. The other one will flee before you get a chance to fire again anyway.”

I nod solemnly in agreement. I hate hearing her cry, I loved her like a sister. This is the last I can do for her. “I'm packing my things as we speak.”

“Good. Your first flight leaves at 1000 hours Western Australia Time on Wednesday morning. Remember, you're a tourist. Oh, and pack a sweater. It's not as sweltering here as it is in the Outback.”

I smile at the last part. “I'll see ya soon, miss.”

“Thank you for this. Pauling, out.”

Beep...

The echo of the phone line dying haunts my inner thoughts as I clutch the old phone in my left hand. I stare into space, hoping for some inspiration. I shake myself off, and get going.

*

It's Wednesday. I wake early, the gleaming sunlight burning my eyes through the thin curtains. I smack the alarm clock off the bedside table. I sit up and blink. I crawl out of bed and put my glasses on. I sigh deeply. My hip aches as I shuffle towards the kitchen. I slam the door of the ol' shack shut and jump into my campervan. My hat on my head and the shades down, I set off. I got a picture of one of the two men posted onto my trusty bobblehead. “Boom. Headshot.” I let out a small chuckle as I flick it. I arrive at the airport with an hour to spare. Everything has gone to plan so far. I show the air hostess my fake passport and take a seat on the plane, where I promptly fall asleep.

11 hours and three flights later, I arrive in the Badlands of America. My escort (whose name was Steve) drives without speaking to the old RED base. I thank him and walk up the secluded path to the abandoned warehouse. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small racoon running off with a loaf of bread. I shed a small tear as I remember the man who was Jane Doe. I lift open the warehouse door. The place is a mess, dust and rats as far as the eye could see. Even the Texan seems to have left. I silently grab my large but streamlined Machina sniper rifle and stuff it inside a large duffel bag. I walk back down to where my escort was waiting for me.

The sun is baking the dry soil, but I don't feel a thing. It's winter here, and so any warmth given I am welcome to. I nod to him and he speeds off, again not saying a thing. Pauling chose him well. Small talk, or talking in general, is not a hobby of mine. He quickly drives me back to the airport and hands me a ticket. He tells me there's a flight headed off for Washington in two hours, and then drives off. I thank him as he leaves. As I wait I order a coffee and read-over the contract Pauling sent me through the escort. “These men have stripped people like me of all our rights, they're denying us necessary human resources and plan to give tax cuts to the rich.” I snarl and promptly turn the paper face down. The coffee is revolting, typical American stuff. Fair too sweet yet fair too bitter at the same time. The cream tastes like it was made with human fat and the coffee tastes like the beans rotted inside a yeti's armpit. I finish it anyway and chuck the paper cup into the bin. I hear the final boarding call and gather my things. The escort deliberately gave me a cheap service with dodgy staff to ensure no-one would notice my bag going on the flight. Smart thinking. However, I knew I had to prepare for the worst. I got on safely, but that was the only good thing that happened. Revolting food, neglecting staff and blocked toilets marked my entire journey. I quickly grab my bag off the belt and sneak out before I can be searched.

I plan it out perfectly. At the next press conference, I would plant a bomb on the eastern side of the conference. A 'civilian' would find the bomb's location; and the targets, because they're so high profile, would be escorted off the premises immediately. This gives me three minutes, two to leave the building, and one before they get into the car to take the shot. My best chance is to wait for them to come outside, where I'll be waiting in a nearby tree.

The day arrives. I position myself inside the tree. As planned, the escort screamed at exactly 1501 hours, where the two men were portraying their hate speech to the world. The whole public was sent into panic, and bodyguards escorted the two men, with their heads down, towards the limousines. I take a deep breath, and shoot.

“BANG!”

The shot rings out across the garden, the whole crowd goes silent. With one bullet, I had taken down both targets and one of the bodyguards. I quickly jump down from the tree and pretend to make a break for it, knowing it was useless. Eventually, they catch me and arrest me.

*

Two days later, I am strapped to a chair with wires running up and down the arms and legs. I am bloody and bruised from all the torture.

“What are your last words before you die, Mr. Mundy?” A menacing-looking woman standing at the lever speaks through a microphone.

“A few days ago, a dying woman told me a joke.” I chuckle, blood pouring from my mouth. “God said, 'The world will end with Trump, Pence.' Hehehe,” I laugh, a cruel laugh which echoes throughout the viewing chamber. “Well, I ended them both.”


End file.
